


Count the Rings Around My Eyes

by caughtinanocean



Category: Captain America, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Sexual Tension, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caughtinanocean/pseuds/caughtinanocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of his time with Arnim Zola, Bucky doesn't trust anyone to tend his wounds—Steve, however, is not just anyone. </p>
<p> <i>“I know it ain't as nice as what you see in the mirror, Cap, but that's not the sort of reaction a guy likes when he strips,” he quipped, face still covered by fabric that had once been white (before all the dried blood and sweat). </i></p>
<p>
  <i>“Sorry, Buck.” Steve tossed the shirt out of the way. “Just, I know I owe you a lot of taking care of, but did you have to get it all outta the way in one go?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Count the Rings Around My Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted to LJ. I've tweaked it some since, but none of the changes have been major. Canon wardrobe has been tampered with slightly for the purpose of the story.
> 
> Title from "I Will Dare" by The Replacements.

None of it really started sinking in until they got back to base. Bucky was, after all, sleep-deprived, exhausted from the long march, and starved half-to-death. He was perfectly justified in feeling more than a little insane, is all he was saying. Zola's lab seemed like a nightmare; Steve showing up and rescuing him with his new-and-improved physique could have been some kind of schoolgirl dream.

The brutal reality of everything that had happened was painted all over his skin, though—Zola was a regular Monet with his little tray of tools. Once the last of the adrenaline finished off its course through Bucky's system—it left him at the mess, scarfing down what had to be the most delicious bowl of unidentifiable mush in the world—the pain of being the canvas for all the practiced penciling of Zola's scalpel, for those brushstroke bruises and burns, caught him. 

The voice snuck up on him the exact moment Bucky had just come to the conclusion that it would be easier to figure out which parts of him _didn't_ hurt. It was Steve—of course it was Steve, who'd had to be pried from his side for so much as a quick hour to report back to his superiors—and of course Steve had caught him both jumping at the sound of his own best friend's voice and grimacing in pain. Bucky had to brace himself before looking up, and it wasn't on account of Steve's still-shocking new height. 

Captain America or no, his face was the same conduit for all his emotions as ever—and there, etched in the furrow of his brow, plain in his earnest, bright eyes, and in the little, disapproving crook of his mouth, was the one Bucky had spent the whole march back to base, and every moment since trying to avoid: worry.

“They've got medics looking the injured men over,” Steve chided, concern and teasing warmth bleeding together in his voice. 

“Yeah, well...Figured I'd eat first. No point in having 'em treat me twice,” Bucky said, gesturing at the colorless slop with his spoon whilst simultaneously continuing its frantic consumption. But Steve had seen him strapped to that table, Steve had seen the empty in his eyes; his attempt at humor fell flat. To him, to the person who knew Bucky best in the entire world, the defensive slope of Bucky's shoulders and the set of his jaw were screaming all the things that Bucky would not say.

“—Hey,” Steve plunked down next to him on the bench, hard—god, he was so huge now, and close enough to whisper, close enough for Bucky to feel the heat that now radiated from that hulking frame. “I'll take care of you myself, okay? I owe you for all the times back home.”

Bucky nodded and tried not to look as grateful as he felt. He finished his food while Steve hovered, only briefly darting off to give someone some orders, eyes keen on Bucky all the while. Plate thoroughly cleaned of all edible substance, and quite possibly a layer of scuffed up tin, he let himself be led away, to Captain America's quarters. 

When they got there, someone had already set out water and medical supplies. Being Captain America's closest personal friend had its perks, it seemed. Steve sat him down on the bed and started undoing buttons. 

“If you wanted to get me out of my clothes, you coulda just asked,” Bucky protested, but his words had no teeth and were treated accordingly. Yeah, Steve was undressing him, but he was tired, and his ribs hurt, and watching Steve's deft hands—still artists' hands, even though they were bigger—make systematic work of his clothing was strangely soothing. He was stripped to his skivvies in no time flat, trying to ignore Steve's worried eyes as they bored into the many hurts on his upper arms. 

“Steve,” Bucky said, very serious, catching the other man's hands when they reached for the hem of his undershirt. “If you think my arms are bad, you're not gonna wanna see what's under there.”

“And you didn't wanna see me with my eyes all blacked for the twentieth time. Still took care of me, though.” 

“Yeah I did, didn't I?” Bucky smiled a little. “Interesting role reversal we got going on here.” He raised up his arms so that Steve could get the undershirt off him. 

Bucky's face was covered by the undershirt, but he could still hear Steve cringe at the sight of what had been underneath it. “I know it ain't as nice as what you see in the mirror, Cap, but that's not the sort of reaction a guy likes when he strips,” he quipped, face still covered by fabric that had once been white (before all the dried blood and sweat). 

“Sorry, Buck.” Steve tossed the shirt out of the way. “Just, I know I owe you a lot of taking care of, but did you have to get it all outta the way in one go?”

Bucky winced.“Yeah, I'm a mess.” 

“Nothing we can't fix.” Steve smiled at him, strained but still sweet, and it went straight to Bucky's heart (as it always had).

Steve started cleaning the cuts on his ribs, and Bucky tried not to flinch at the light touch. 

“Do you want something for the pain?” Steve asked. “I can get a medic.”

Bucky had gone ashen-faced before Steve was halfway through the question. “No drugs, ever. No doctors, no drugs.” At that precise moment, Steve knew why. With the dried blood cleared from his skin, it was obvious that the cuts were scalpel-precise, and arranged in little patterns—like it, like torturing him, was some kind of joke. Steve's hand clenched on the washcloth, hard. 

He swallowed down the anger and kept cleaning off the dirt and dried blood, sweeping the damp cloth over Bucky's collar bones and down to his stomach—Bucky trembled a little, at that; Steve touching him had always been a conflict. Then, Steve took a moment to dab at the dried blood on his cheekbone, touch gentle enough to melt him. It had been such a long time since someone took care of him, since someone touching him had been a good thing. Bucky shook for real, then, quaking with the emotion of it. 

Steve stopped, put a hesitant hand on his wrist. “Is it okay? Am I hurting you? Is it the touching? Does it—”

Bucky smiled at the rapid-fire concern.“—Yeah, Steve, it's okay. Keep going, it's good.” 

Steve dipped the washcloth back in the basin, gave it an unnecessarily-hard squeeze, and resumed his task. He finished cleaning Bucky up, looking at nothing but his face the whole time. It was a way to postpone looking at his injuries, yes, but it also meant watching the emotions play across his features—watching Bucky relax and let his eyes flutter shut for a moment, watching every curl of his mouth and every flicker of the muscles of his throat, watching Bucky like he had been for what seemed like their entire lives. Bucky swallowed when the washcloth brushed over a painful spot on his shoulder, but it was Steve whose mouth went dry. 

“This next part stings,” Steve warned, picking up the bottle of iodine. 

“You hardly ever flinched, when you were the one on the business end of the cotton swab.”

Steve shrugged. “Didn't want you to feel like you were hurting me. Should I start with your ribs again?”

Bucky's heart twisted its way into his stomach, that way only Steve could ever make it do. “Sounds good to me.”

Steve's sure hands were unbelievably gentle, taking the same path as they had with the washcloth, this time with iodine and infinite attention to every wound. He started with the scalpel cuts and bruises on Bucky's ribs, and then dabbed at the bruising on his chest, the broken skin where the straps of Zola's perverse medical table had dug in. Bucky shivered when the iodine went on the cuts on the thin skin stretched over his hipbones, but that had less to do with the sting than with the man touching him. Bucky's abdomen was irritated from something chemical that had come from a dropper, and Steve thought best to leave that hurt alone. 

Steve put down the bottle to deal with the cut on his cheekbone, freeing up a hand to hold Bucky's face steady while he dabbed at the cracked skin. And in that moment, with Steve cupping his face in one gentle hand and tending that one, small injury with such focus on that perfect face of his, as if it—as if Bucky—were the most important thing in the world, Bucky felt the memory of that skin breaking, the sharp smack to his face from Zola's latex-gloved hand, swept out to sea, all-but-forgotten.

Steve picked the iodine back up; Bucky's arms were next—first his wrists, marked by the restraints, and then the matching marks across his biceps. It was at that moment that Steve's eyes locked onto the burns on his left arm—three, right above the imprint of the top strap, all perfect circles. Two of them were tiny, the same size. The third was larger. 

The bottle of iodine shattered in Steve's suddenly-violent grasp. He didn't notice. “Those are from cigarettes. Two cigarettes and a cigar.” His hands were shaking. 

Bucky wouldn't meet his gaze, head ducked down and shoulders hunched. “He uh, was testing out some drugs. Let's just say they were supposed to make it easier to get info outta prisoners without cutting 'em up too bad. That's what all of this was for, to see how I reacted to different kind of hurt. Zola was a pretty thorough kinda guy. Wanted to cover all his bases.”

“Bucky,” Steve said—in that serious, listen-to-Captain-America voice of his. “Look at me. Don't you dare—don't you dare be ashamed because of what was done to you.”

Bucky did, slow and reluctant. “Shit, Steve! You're bleeding!”

Steve blinked, confused, and then looked down at his hands. “Huh. Guess we're gonna need a new bottle of iodine. You stay put, I'll go get one. ”

“Your hand, you idiot!”

Steve curled and uncurled his fingers. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Huh?”

“That's how long that'll take to heal. They didn't make me a super-soldier for nothing.”

“That doesn't mean you can just...” Bucky flailed his arms in some sort of frustrated gesture that was worth every bit of pain it cost him. “Still a punk.”

“Worry about you own damn self for once, you jerk. I'll be right back.”

Steve was back in what felt like a literal heartbeat. Bucky studied him, perplexed—he had to have run, but his breathing was even and slow and he hadn't so much as broken a sweat. This new-and-improved (not that there had been anything, anything at all wrong with the old one) Steve was still a puzzle to him. Bucky had spent the moments since they were reunited, since Steve had saved him, studying that new, unfamiliar body for everything that had remained the same; he hadn't been watching to figure out what had changed, what Steve was now capable of. “You weren't messing around when you said you'd be right back.”

Steve flashed him a smile that made his breath catch in his throat. “You ready to finish up?” He held up the fresh bottle of iodine. “Still gonna gave to turn you into a mummy with gauze after this.”

Bucky nodded. He'd fight Steve on how much gauze was necessary later. 

Steve went back to the cigarette burns with a shaky breath. His hands—those always-sure hands, still weren't steady, and Bucky could tell, by the furrow in his brow and the way he was biting his lip, that Steve was being extra careful to compensate. The worry, the cuts on his left hand, already halfway done knitting themselves back up, it was almost—almost, because Bucky hated nothing quite so much as seeing Steve unhappy—nice seeing such tangible proof that Steve cared so deeply about what had been done to him. Bucky wasn't sure why—didn't really think Steve had a reason, now that he didn't need saving every fifteen seconds, but whatever it was...

“—I know that look. You're thinking, Buck. Never a good idea for ya. Always better when you say whatever it is out loud so I can tell you that it's wrong before you get yourself into trouble.” Steve finished treating the burns. These, unlike the other wounds, he taped over with gauze right away, as if he were trying to erase them.

“You don't need me anymore. Why do you still care?” Bucky wasn't sure why he blurted that out—probably it was the sleep-deprivation and the exhaustion and the last, fading dregs of starvation. Maybe it was the sting of iodine on burnt flesh. But once he started talking, there was no stopping. His mouth ran on of its own accord. “You've always kind of been the best person ever—I was just...the only one who knew. Now everybody knows and what the hell do you need me for?”

“James Buchanan Barnes.” Full name—Bucky was in trouble. “I know I call you an idiot a lot, but I want you to know that I've never really, truly meant it until this moment. You—are an idiot.” 

Steve's eyes were all aflame, and well—Bucky had always lo—liked him incensed. 

“I went on a one-man mission to hell to rescue you—you. Of course I was gonna get the rest of the men out once I got there, but you were the one I came for.” Steve wanted to say a hell of a lot more than that, but he stopped there, went back to the gauze and started bandaging Bucky's ribs. “You're staying here tonight. If you're stupid enough to believe that, God himself only knows what you'll get into if I let you out of my sight.”

Bucky tried to stop himself from grinning like a fool and failed. “I guess I can indulge Captain America. We can share the bed like old times.”

“Yeah, like old times.” It was alright, because Steve was smiling, too. 

Back in Brooklyn, they'd shared the bed with at least the pretense of sleeping on separate sides, even if they always woke up all kinds of tangled together. There were always excuses—the cold of their unheated apartment, Steve's fragile health. This time around, once each of Bucky's many hurts had been tended to Steve's satisfaction, they crawled into bed and didn't take that particular bit of self-deception with them.

Bucky was tucked against Steve's side, head on that massive chest of his. Steve, perfect human that he was, had apparently memorized the map of Bucky's injuries well enough to hug him close without so much as aggravating a bruise. He still asked about it, though. 

“Yeah, Steve, I'm okay,” Bucky said, smiling into his skin; he was already drifting off. “'D you know you're like a space-heater now? This woulda come in handy in our old place...” 

Steve didn't say anything, just watched Bucky with an amused look on his face. Bucky's eyelashes fluttered shut, and Steve had never been so glad to have anyone alive and close. The world was a darker place than Steve had thought, and he knew that now, having tended every single one of Bucky's wounds. At that particular moment, though, Bucky warm and safe against him, his every even breath a reminder that he was here and he was alright, the world didn't seem half bad. Steve fell asleep that night smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a prequel to a longer work that I still haven't gotten around to finishing, so it'll be part of a series if I ever get to that. Also, this was kind of an experiment to see if I still remembered how to write in the past tense.


End file.
